


moskva slezam ne verit (moscow doesn't believe in tears)

by Kima



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: (only mentioned but still), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Families of Choice, Gen, Hospitals, M/M, Metaphors, Pre-Slash, References to Depression, Russian bedside manners ARE HORRIBLE, Swearing, Unconventional Families, Week from Hell, so many metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 16:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10194182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kima/pseuds/Kima
Summary: People say that life flashes before your eyes right before you die. In between those split seconds of life and death, caught in a vortex of memories as they fly by, fragments of images, scents, thoughts all around while you desperately try to grasp them and they flow through your fingers, ephemeral bits and pieces of yourself, dying away and burning out like candles in the wind. They say that you stop breathing under the onslaught of memories, choked with regrets as you watch it all happen, as all your choices lead you to this very moment, creating an endless spiral of memories until death mercifully claims you and you sink into its arms, blissfully free of the chains of memories around your heart and inside your head.Yuri Plisetsky knows that this is a lie.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [evlytheevilqueen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/evlytheevilqueen/gifts).



> Rated T to be safe. Possible trigger warnings for mentions of alcohol abuse.  
> A character suffers a heart attack but everything turns out well in the end.
> 
> Title is both from a Russian movie with that same title (it won an Oscar!!) and a Russian saying about how crying is pointless and you should get up and get shit done instead.  
> Also from my grandma who wouldn't stop saying this to me whenever I cried. Thanks for that, grandma, because that didn't fuck me up at all /sarcasm
> 
> I've been meaning to write some angsty backstory for Yuri for ages now and then this came to mind. I had to rewrite it twice because word for some reason didn't save the first draft of the first half. Unbeta'd.  
> For Katja because I'm evil and retaliating for her shooting Lance in her fic. But also because we're both suckers for happy ends.
> 
> I apologize in advance.

People say that life flashes before your eyes right before you die. In between those split seconds of life and death, caught in a vortex of memories as they fly by, fragments of images, scents, thoughts all around while you desperately try to grasp them and they flow through your fingers, ephemeral bits and pieces of yourself, dying away and burning out like candles in the wind. They say that you stop breathing under the onslaught of memories, choked with regrets as you watch it all happen, as all your choices lead you to this very moment, creating an endless spiral of memories until death mercifully claims you and you sink into its arms, blissfully free of the chains of memories around your heart and inside your head.

Yuri Plisetsky knows that this is a lie. Because it doesn’t happen only before you die; it also happens while you’re alive, even as a part of you dies away in agony and burns up like a leaf caught in the flames. He’s been there before, has had the breath punched out of him by it all, as bones turned from glass to steel and the forest green sparkle of hope dimmed into ice-cold determination. After everything that led him here, he likes to believe that all those setbacks, all those parts of himself he watched die and has long since shed were just the chrysalis before, inevitably, he opens his wings and soars above it all.

And soar he does.

He likes to believe himself above such fragile things as friendship and family and all the complicated emotions that are tangled up in them, likes to believe that he doesn’t need any of it.

But of course, life is nothing but cruel – and it likes to remind him that he is, after all, simply human.

It starts with small things.

When Yuri wakes up on Monday, it’s not to the familiar iPhone marimbas of his alarm but instead to the restless yowling of his cat Nika and the all-too familiar but entirely unpleasant smell of poop emanating from her litter box in the hallway. Gagging, he sits up and grumbles as he runs a hand through his hair and blindly pats around for his phone to look at the time.

The moment he sees the numbers lighting up on his too bright screen, Yuri is instantly awake.

He is over an hour late for practice.

There are four missed calls from Yakov, two from Viktor and even one from Mila and he curses loudly as he climbs out of bed and past the still yowling Nika who has apparently decided that now is the best time to have her after-poop zoomies. He stumbles into the bathroom to brush his teeth still cursing under his breath, wondering how the hell he forgot to put on his alarm and why he’s turned his phone on silent in the first place.

As he leaves the bathroom not two minutes later, Nika has apparently zoomed her way across the rest of the apartment. He doesn’t notice her, too focused on his phone screen as he taps away to call Yakov and of course that’s when he trips right over her, first smacking his right shoulder against the doorframe of his bedroom and then getting knocked back straight on his ass as his phone clatters through the ground and a startled Nika runs away, screeching. A moan escapes him as his shoulder blooms with pain, shooting straight down his arm and he squeezes his eyes shut against it, breathing against the pain and biting his lip.

“ _Blyat_ ,” he moans, wincing as he blinks open his eyes, now tearing up from the pain. He tries to move his arm and while it hurts like hell, it doesn’t feel like anything’s broken. Still blinking away the sudden wetness in his eyes, he reaches for his phone with his right hand and winces again, muscle memory stronger than the pain shooting through his shoulder. He’s clumsier with his left hand but manages to pick up his phone – letting out another string of curses when he sees the fine spider webs of cracked glass in the upper right corner.

His shoulder still throbs ten minutes later when he finally reaches the metro station, weaving through the morning crowd with his hatred of people increasing tenfold as he’s trying desperately not to bump into too many people while tapping at his phone to finally call Yakov. He ends up squeezed between two elderly ladies who are gossiping about literally everything on God’s green earth and a homeless man who stinks so much of alcohol that Yuri gags through his entire phone conversation with Yakov, trying desperately not to vomit as he grits out an apology to his trainer and promises to be there soon.

By the time he finally reaches the rink, his already sour mood has plummeted to an absolute subzero and he glares at everyone he comes across in the locker room until he steps on the ice.

“Knew it was a stupid idea to let you live alone,” Yakov tells him as Yuri skates up to him. Everyone else is already there, long done with their warm-ups and now pausing in their individual routines to watch him. He can practically feel their eyes on him and grits his teeth against the embarrassment bubbling up inside him as Yakov grumbles some more about how this better not happen again and to go get his ass warmed up so they can start working on his routine.

Yuri takes a deep breath and then loses himself in the familiar motions on the ice.

Chrysalis, he reminds himself. He’s been through worse. Screw Mondays.

His shoulder still throbs.

Waking up on Tuesday morning is much calmer – albeit painful because his shoulder has by now gone from throbbing uncomfortably to being stiff and littered with bruises. He grits his teeth through his early morning routine, trying to ignore the sharp spikes of pain shooting down his arm every time he moves it.

Hiding it is of course pointless; he knows his body well enough to know when he can push through a minor injury but this is not one of these times. Yakov agrees; Yuri ends up being benched for morning practice, scowling at the others who keep throwing him glances full of pity, like he’s some poor exotic animal at the zoo worth staring at. Well, fuck them.

The rink physician arrives around noon, steely-eyed behind her glasses and the usual look of complete and utter disinterest plain on her face. Of course, Yuri is sent straight to her office and has to let her prod and poke at his injured shoulder.

“That fucking hurts!” he yells after a particularly painful bend of his arm and gets rewarded with a smack over the head.

“Watch your tongue, for the last time,” the doctor huffs at him, annoyed. “Or I’ll bench you for the rest of the season.” He sticks his tongue out at her, earning himself a raised eyebrow, but remains silent after that, no matter how painful her examination is.

“Contusion of the collarbone,” is the verdict after what feels like an entire eternity. “You’re off the ice for the rest of the week, you hear me?”

He grumbles his assent, gets a bottle of pain medication from her and goes to find Yakov.

To say that Yakov is not pleased is an understatement; but Yakov isn’t cruel, despite being harsh and demanding – he sighs deeply at Yuri’s diagnosis and pats him on the other shoulder, mindful of the bruised limb.

“Go home, Yura,” he says not unkindly. “Get some rest and I’ll come see you this weekend, we’ll assess when you can skate again.”

“I’m fine,” Yuri grumbles although he is not. His shoulder fucking aches.

“You need someone to get you home?” Yakov asks, ignoring his grumbling entirely.

“I said I’m fine!” Yuri huffs, batting away Yakov’s hand that’s still resting on his uninjured shoulder. “’m not a fucking child!”

“I wonder sometimes…” Yakov sighs but nods and tells him to just take the rest off like the rink physician ordered him to. Yuri glares at the others who are throwing him pitiful glances again and goes back to the locker room to get changed and heads home.

Come Thursday, Yuri is bored out of his mind.

He’s not used to sitting around in his apartment, practically spends no time here at all except at nights and during the weekends. His life is on the ice; frankly, he has no idea what to do with himself stuck inside the ever same, unchanging four walls, stares at the ceiling for hours and wishes he had something else to do besides watch reruns of ancient cartoons (partly from his grandfather’s childhood, familiar and soothing like coming home) and scroll through his instagram feed that’s seriously starting to depress him – but that’s what he gets for following all of his rivals who only post about the ice. He amuses himself for a while with leaving scathing replies on all of JJ’s recent updates but then lets his phone drop on the sofa again with a sigh because there’s only so much joy he can get out of insulting JJ, especially when his shoulder still throbs with every movement and the painkillers do fuck all to alleviate that pain.

The old witch probably gave him a placebo, fucking hell.

He’s busy glaring holes into the wall above his TV when his phone suddenly vibrates with a message. It’s so unexpected that he actually jumps, jostling his shoulder once again and wincing slightly as he picks up his phone. The pained expression, however, quickly blooms into a smile as he sees that the message is from Otabek.

_< Beka 13:43: hey you haven’t updated your insta in a while. You ok?>_

Yuri’s belly blooms with warmth and a thousand butterflies taking flight at once, it seems, and he quickly fights down the stupidly happy smile on his face. Even if nobody but Nika can see him right now, he isn’t some stupid school girl with a crush.

_< You 13:44: Busted my shoulder :(_ _ >_

Typing with his left hand is an art he has mastered in the past 48 hours because his right arm does not enjoy any movement at all currently. Yuri watches the familiar _Beka is typing…_ light up on top of his WhatsApp feed and lowers his phone because he can practically feel the worried tirade coming (Beka is such a _mom_ sometimes, it’s ridiculous) but instead of the soft chimes announcing another message, his phone starts ringing. Surprised, Yuri lifts it again to see that it’s really Otabek, having opted to call him instead of writing.

His belly explodes in another thousand butterflies and his heart suddenly decides that it wants to participate in a marathon. Blood rushing to his face as he blushes wildly, he quickly accepts the call.

“The fuck, Beka,” is what Yuri says in lieu of a greeting.

“You can’t just write things like that without additional information,” Otabek admonishes him, the worry in his voice all too evident. “How bad is it? What even happened? It won’t stop you from competing this season, will it?” Yuri blinks, a little overwhelmed. With everyone else, he would’ve snarled and told them to fuck off because he’s 16 now and not a child and besides, what do they even care.

But this is Otabek.

“’m fine,” he replies. “It’s just bruised and hurts like fuck but it shouldn’t be too bad. I’m just off the ice for the rest of the week.”

“ _Blin_ , Yura… Are you okay?”

“I just said I’m fine,” he grouches. “Just bored, you know? Not much I can do while stuck at home.”

“Be more careful, okay?”

The thing is – he knows that Otabek is just worried. He knows rationally that this is what friendship is probably about, you worry about each other and care and ask your friend to be more careful. Yuri knows all of this; but reason is lost on him as he suddenly feels irritation bubble up inside of him.

“I’m not a child!” he says, much louder than actually intended. “It’s not like I did it on purpose!”

“Yura, I…”

“Shut it, Beka. Goodbye.” He cancels the call and mutes his phone for good measure, dropping it face-down on the sofa. He’s halfway through crossing his arms when his shoulder protests and he curses loudly, waking up Nika who has been napping peacefully on his other side. She jerks awake as he curses his aching shoulder again and he glares at her.

“What are you staring at?” he yells as if the cat could actually understand him. “This is all your fault in the first place!” He tries to shove her off the sofa and Nika retaliates with a hiss, clawing his left hand before jumping off the sofa and running away to hide.

Yuri stares at the bloody welts on the back of his hand – and tears up.

God fucking damn it.

He wipes at his wet eyes furiously with his left hand and sinks back into the pillows, face contorted into a grimace of irritation. What the living fuck, seriously. What is it with this week from hell? First he oversleeps, then he busts his shoulder and gets benched and now he got into a fight with his best (and possibly only) friend. Great.

But Yuri is also stubborn – like hell he will apologize now, not when he’s still seething with anger and shakes with all those stupid emotions inside of him. Who even invented emotions? Why does he need them?

He desperately wants to go back to before all of this bullshit began; before this week, before Beka and before fucking Viktor took off to Japan to woo his Japanese pork cutlet bowl. Before Yuuri got drunk and rubbed himself all over Viktor.

Clearly, fucking Yuuri is to blame for all of this and Yuri suddenly wishes he’d never talked to the fucking idiot after Sochi, wishes he’d never followed Viktor to Japan.

The fragile equilibrium, the status quo he’s been living in before all of this began, has been shattered the second Yuuri showed up in Viktor’s and, consequentially, Yuri’s lives. And he hates changes, has always hated them with a burning passion, ever since that first change, ever since…

Gritting his teeth, Yuri stops that particular train of thought. No. Fuck it, he’s not going to cry over spilled milk anymore, he’s not a little kid anymore. Fuck this week and fuck everything, it’s just another stone in his path and he won’t let a tiny bump stop him from soaring higher.

He’s Yuri fucking Plisetsky, after all.

Otabek leaves him three messages and two voicemails, none of which Yuri pays attention too because he’s still fucking angry about being treated like a kid. He does, however, unmute his phone again in the evening, just in case his grandpa calls – or Yakov, maybe giving him an excuse to return to the rink tomorrow and not die of boredom.

What he gets instead, three hours later, is another kick to the face, courtesy of life.

“Please tell me that I can come back to the rink tomorrow,” Yuri grumbles when he picks up the call from Yakov. “I’m going crazy over here.”

“Yura…” And this, right there, the careful tone of Yakov’s usually rough voice, the slight intonation of sadness, pinched with worry, is what gives the whole situation away even before the words are out. Yuri simply _knows_ , in this moment, what Yakov’s next words will be and it fills him with dread and horror, spilling over the edges of his already full emotional capacity. “I just got a call from Moscow, your grandfather…”

He doesn’t even hear the rest, feels like he’s drowning, like the cocoon of safety he has spent the last ten years crafting carefully is shattering all around him, sharp pieces falling off and cutting his bleeding heart even more. And oh, how it bleeds! Red and black and the ache seeps into every fiber of his being as his chest heaves with the sudden weight and the breath is punched out of him so hard that it leaves him reeling. The phone slips out of his numb fingers and the room around him starts swimming, turning into a spiral of colors and thoughts around him as he desperately tries to breathe through it but to no avail. He’s left gasping for breath, hot tears stinging his eyes and cheeks and the hollow ache inside his chest punches out a strangled sob and another. His mouth feels numb and his fingers tingle with a thousand needle pinpricks and he’s falling, falling, falling.

And then there it is, the achingly familiar chain of memories, the all-too-real fragments of past days swirling around him, small and big pictures, snapshots of his life, falling apart all around him, shattering into bits and pieces while he’s left all alone in the dark, _again_ , and he can’t he can’t he _can’t breathe_ -

His grandfather holding his own, tiny hand while his father yells at his mother, throws a bottle in her direction.

His grandfather hugging him close when the apartment door slams shut one loud, final time as the bastard leaves their lives, his mother a sobbing mess on the floor.

His grandfather gently turning away his head, away from his drunk mother, lying in a pool of her own vomit and snoring.

His grandfather holding him in his arms as his mother signs off the documents, leaving him in the care of her own father while she drinks herself into oblivion to forget that her abusive husband walked out on her.

His grandfather smiling down at him, both hand holding on to him, as he shows him how to move his feet on the ice, as he falls in love with the feeling of blades under his soles and the crisp, cold air of a rink.

His grandfather cheering from the sidelines during his first competition, the usually quiet old man a picture of joy as he receives his first medal, the first of so, so many.

His grandfather staring at a picture of his grandmother, long gone, and telling him how they met, how beautiful she was, how vibrant, how elegant up on a ballet stage.

His grandfather waving at him from the train station as the train starts to move, the first summer away, that wretched ballet camp where his feet bled and his gaze and spine were steeled even further, where he met Otabek and didn’t even know until years later.

His grandfather smiling proudly and yet so sad when Yakov proposes to coach him properly in St. Petersburg, when they say goodbye at the airport, both of them crying and not wanting the other to see as they clutch at each other, hugging within an inch of their lives.

His grandfather’s pirozhki, still warm from the oven. His grandfather’s smile. His grandfather’s hugs. His grandfather’s scent, faint shaving cream and pinecones. His grandfather’s eyes, crinkling with joy. His grandfather’s hands, combing through blond hair as he teaches him how to braid.

Warmth.

Smiles.

Snow.

Tea.

Cakes.

Ice.

Laughter.

Sunlight.

Skating.

Pride.

Happiness.

Winter.

Falling…

…

…

…

…

“Yura?!”

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there, gasping for breath, his vision swimming with tears and lack of oxygen. Doesn’t know when he curled up into a ball on the floor, sobbing. Doesn’t know when his door was opened by the spare keys Yakov has, doesn’t know when steps sound through his small, dark apartment, doesn’t know who turns the lights on.

What he does know is that a hand touches him and he barely even reacts, just lifts his eyes to the worried faces of Yakov and Viktor. He doesn’t say anything, lets them babble and talk over him, isn’t listening until Viktor swears (actual, honest to god profanity from the mouth of Viktor himself, ha, would you look at that and all it took was Yuri’s spirit to be broken in front of him) and pulls him into his arms. The hug feels too tight and like not enough, right and so very wrong at the same time because Yuri doesn’t want this, doesn’t want Viktor to hug him but his grandfather and his grandfather is…

What he does know is that a sob wrecks his entire body as he clings to Viktor’s coat, burying his face in the coarse material and just letting his tears flow. How he still has any tears left to shed is beyond him – his eyes already hurt, his cheeks burn with the leftover salt and wetness and his injured shoulder throbs, throbs, throbs in time with his sobs, making him cry even harder from just the pain.

What he does know is that he barely remembers the drive to the airport, boarding and the flight itself, that he spends the entire time feeling numb and hollow, just staring into space because he simply doesn’t have it in him anymore to cry. He’s exhausted, weary to the bones, wrung out and so, so tired. But sleep doesn’t come, of course it doesn’t, because he can’t stop thinking, can’t stop remembering and the swirls of memories are still choking him, punching him in the gut every time he blinks and they shift, an ever changing kaleidoscope of aches.

What he does know, later, is that while Viktor held him and rocked back and forth, helplessly hugging his sobbing body, Yakov has booked two seats on the next flight to Moscow and that Viktor has talked their coach out of flying along because the others still needed him. Instead, it’s Viktor who accompanies him, a warm constant at his side as they go through customs, as they get into a cab. As Viktor gently takes the keys from Yuri’s shaking hands to get into his grandfather’s empty apartment. But before he can actually put the keys into the lock, Yuri grabs for his sleeve, blinking himself out of his stupor.

“I want,” he starts but Viktor is already shaking his head, regardless of these being the first words Yuri has said in _hours_.

“It’s too late to go to the hospital now, Yura,” he explains calmly, both hands on Yuri’s shoulders, steadying him and at the same time too heavy, so very heavy and his knees are already wobbly. “You need to sleep. It’s already past midnight.”

“I want…” he starts again, voice hoarse and alien to his own ears. “Please, I need…”

Maybe that’s what convinces Viktor. The small, tired plea to not make him sleep, to let him see his grandfather, the only family he has left.

He spaces out, again. He doesn’t know how they get from his grandfather’s house to the hospital that called Yakov and is only again aware of his surroundings when a very unimpressed and bored nurse tells them to sod off and come back tomorrow.

“No, you don’t understand,” Viktor says. “He’s the next of kin…”

“It’s you who doesn’t understand,” the nurse replies, still bored. “It’s past midnight. Come back tomorrow, you can’t see anyone now anyway.”

“… Please…” Yuri whispers and finally looks up at her, well in her 50s and her hair bleached and pulled into a bun. “Just… please.” She looks at him, dark eyes cold and unyielding and – something in her gaze shifts. He almost recoils at the pity in her eyes, almost yells at her that she can shove that pity somewhere the sun doesn’t shine.

Almost.

Instead, he stays silent and just looks at her. She looks back and sighs, waving a hand in defeat.

“Well, alright, but just the kid. He can have the second bed in the room. You,” she points at Viktor and her eyes go steely again, “come back tomorrow. They’ll have my ass for this as it is.” Viktor agrees to that because of course he does, caring idiot that he is, and Yuri gets escorted by the nurse to his grandfather’s room in the ICU because that’s where people go after a heart attack at that age.

From his brief stay at a hospital in Germany during another competition, Yuri knows that Russian hospitals aren’t exactly the best when it comes to bedside manner but he’s still somewhat shocked by the way the nurse just shows him the room, tells him to be quiet and not touch any of the medical gadgets and then leaves again. That is, he’d be shocked if the sight of his grandfather, still and pale under the starch-stiff blanket of the hospital bed, didn’t knock the breath out of him. By the time he can move again, the nurse is long gone and he’s left alone in the small room filled with the constant, too slow but at least steady beeps of a heart monitor.

He swallows, suddenly feeling small and lost and so, so scared as he slowly makes his way to his grandfather’s bedside, sits down on the edge of the bed and takes his grandfather’s hand carefully into his.

It’s warm to the touch, littered with the familiar pattern of age marks and his fingers automatically find the pulse point, almost frantically pressing down on it to feel the throb of life against his fingertips. His stupid bruised shoulder throbs in sympathy.

If he hadn’t used up all his tears during the initial breakdown after Yakov’s call, he’d probably cry again now. As it is, he just sits there, cradling his grandfather’s still bigger hand in his, feeling young and helpless all over again, except that this time there’s no grandfather to hug him and tell him that everything is going to be okay – there’s just numbness. He curls up at his grandfather’s side, careful not to jostle him or any of the horrifying cables running to and fro and nuzzles against the hand still clutched in his.

He falls asleep like that, lashes once again streaked with tears.

The next day is filled with explanations from a doctor (entirely unhappy with having Yuri here but also not in the mood to argue with a heartbroken, apathetic teenager and his emotional, loud caretaker once Viktor arrives) about how Nikolai Plisetsky was at a grocery during the heart attack and how it was good they got him to the hospital fast. How the emergency surgery went off without any major problems (major problems so it means there were minor ones… right?) and how now they’ll have to wait and see when and if he wakes up.

Yuri stops listening after that, lets Viktor deal with the rest because he simply cannot handle more. There’s no if for him – his grandfather _has_ to wake up. He simply has to because… Because. Yuri refuses to finish that particular thought. No ifs, no buts. His grandfather has to wake up.

And so he waits.

And waits.

… He’s always hated waiting.

Viktor keeps flitting in and out of the room, too restless to stay in one place for too long but also too worried about Yuri to leave him alone, much like a butterfly and possibly just as fragile because all skaters are fragile, aren’t they? Yuri can sometimes hear him talk on the phone – in Russian with Yakov and soft English with Yuuri and the latter makes a weird bubble of _something_ well up in Yuri’s belly. He suddenly, fiercely misses Otabek.

But he can’t concentrate on the half-formed thought of maybe texting him, apologizing for yelling at him and getting some comfort. Not when the comfort he really wants is the one from his grandfather. What a nonsensical thing a human heart is, after all – craving the one thing it can’t have, always yearning for the impossible.

It’s a bittersweet kind of irony.

When there’s a knock on the door, a day later, Yuri barely reacts, just hums noncommittally into the general direction of the door. He hasn’t really moved from his spot on his grandfather’s bed since curling up there, considering that the nurses are mostly ignoring him anyway when they come to check up on Nikolai’s vitals and the doctors only speak to Viktor by now because Yuri is hardly receptive, drifting in and out of consciousness. It’s not even sleep, really; just this weird state of numbness where you can’t do much but just lie there and stare into space.

It occurs to him that Viktor doesn’t knock, probably doesn’t even know the meaning of the word – much like himself, he guesses, though it’s arguable whether kicking doors open counts as knocking or not. Maybe it’s this weirdness that makes him blink himself more awake, shifting a bit so he can raise his head and look at the door that is slowly opening to reveal…

Otabek.

Yuri blinks, trying to process his best friend’s face inside his grandfather’s hospital room, trying to understand what the hell happened while he was too lethargic to care. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out and then suddenly, Otabek is moving towards him and hugging him close and Yuri has no idea what’s happening, has no idea how Otabek even knows but he’s here and he’s real and Yuri just _breaks_.

Again.

Only this time, the hug doesn’t feel as wrong as with Viktor, is almost right, on the right side of too tight and the good side of not enough. Yuri sobs and hugs Otabek back, mumbling apologies into his coat and sobbing more when Otabek just shakes his head, just lets him cry as he hugs him tighter, softening the sharp edges of Yuri’s splintered heart with just his presence. It’s not enough to put his heart back together but it’s a start. It doesn’t hurt _as much_ anymore.

A soft, warm feeling blooms in Yuri’s chest beneath all the anguish and worry as Otabek strokes over his hair, whispering kind nonsense into his ear until the tears eventually dry and the sobs quiet down into hiccups that he’d be embarrassed about on any other day, probably. Not here, though, in this small cocoon of warmth in Otabek’s arms, his scent in Yuri’s nose and the steady beeping of machines in the background.

“Viktor called me,” Otabek says, voice low and gentle, as if Yuri is an injured animal and maybe he is, a bird with broken wings. “I came here as fast as I could.”

“Your training…” Yuri starts but is interrupted by Otabek shaking his head.

“You’re more important than my training, Yura.” The words ring out in his mind like lost echoes and he swallows hard at the implication, at the warm bubbles of _something_ in his chest that’s too big and scary to name just yet, not in this situation. Not while his grandfather still has to wake up…

“He had a heart attack,” Yuri whispers after what seems to be an eternity but is probably just a few minutes. “In the grocery store. I knew he had problems lately but… I couldn’t do much, not…” He stops himself, sniffs. His nose is runny and annoying but he doesn’t want to move, not when he just feels like he can breathe a little better again with Otabek’s arms still around him and the steady pulse of life against his ear where he’s leaning against Beka’s chest.

“We never had much money,” he decides to say, just to fill the silence between them. It’s not an uncomfortable silence but he suddenly has the need to explain himself to Otabek, to make him understand why his grandfather is so important to him. “When I took up skating, grandpa was the only one… Dad left when I was three. Mom never cared much and then…” His thoughts are a jumbled mess but he’s trying to put some semblance of order to them, for Beka’s sake. “I had to keep winning for the money. So I… I went with Yakov. I didn’t wanna leave him but… but we needed the money and he was all I had and…”

Otabek, bless his soul, doesn’t say anything. Just lets him talk and ramble, about how his father used to get drunk and beat his mother, about how he finally left, about how his mother started drinking herself sick after that. About how his grandfather had to watch his daughter drink herself into oblivion because he was powerless to stop her and how he took Yuri in, cared about him as the only parent Yuri has ever acknowledged as such. About how Yuri started ice skating in serious because he was good at it and the prize money helped them, about how his grandfather’s proud smiles always spurned him on.

About how his grandfather is all he had, for such a long time.

Otabek doesn’t say anything and just continues stroking his hair until Yuri has exhausted himself completely with the talking and crying and has fallen asleep, still nestled into Otabek’s embrace and clutching his grandfather’s warm, limp hand.

When he wakes up again, hours later, his eyes still hurt from all the crying but he feels marginally better. Not as numb as before and a little more like himself. He blinks in the twilight of the room, gaze instantly on his grandfather’s motionless face, looking weirdly peaceful. He’s still curled up next to him but now, there’s a warm coat on top of his own body and as he sits up, a cloud of Otabek’s aftershave wafts up to his nose and answers the question whether he dreamed his best friend up. Yuri blushes as he remembers sobbing into Otabek’s chest and being so very vulnerable, not at all like the _eyes of a soldier_ would suggest. What if Otabek now looks down on him because of that? What if that’s the reason he’s not here anymore?

But if he had left, he would have taken his coat with him, right? Yuri forces himself to calm down and swallows, mouth dry after his much needed nap. He probably just stepped out to get something to eat. Or to drink. Who knows how much time has passed…

Right on cue, the door opens and Otabek comes back in, looking a little tired but oh so very real and not at all a figment of Yuri’s desperate imagination. He smiles as soon as he sees that Yuri is awake, a coffee to go in one hand and a sandwich in the other.

“For you,” he says and lifts both hands. “You looked like you’d need both when you wake up.” Yuri doesn’t say anything, just watches Otabek put both the cup and the sandwich on the bedside table and pull a chair closer so he can sit next to the bed comfortably.

He doesn’t force Yuri to eat anything, doesn’t ask him how he feels. Just looks at him with this weirdly warm expression and smiles a little, half sad, half encouraging. Yuri blinks, takes a breath and lets go of his grandfather’s hand to reach for the coffee cup.

The hot coffee burns his tongue and tastes horribly, like the watered down piss of a drunk hedgehog, but it makes him feel alive for the first time in days and he sips at it gratefully, occasionally taking small bites out of the simple sandwich Otabek has brought him, sitting on the edge of his grandfather’s bed and stretching out his legs a little. The silence is only interrupted by the steady beeping of the heart monitor but unlike before, it feels more hopeful now. Less like impending doom and a bit more like the countdown for a takeoff.

“How’s your shoulder?” Otabek finally asks while Yuri is finishing off his sandwich and draining the last remains of his disgusting watery coffee. Yuri blinks at him in surprise because he hasn’t thought of his shoulder in… ages, really.

“Okay, I guess?” he replies, a little unsure and very much unlike himself. He moves his right arm a bit and finds that there’s only a dull pain left, nothing like the sharp sting from before. “Still hurts a bit but it’s better.”

“Good to hear,” Otabek hums and nods to himself. Yuri swallows the last bite of his sandwich and looks down at the leftover packaging in his hand.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, barely audible even to his own ears, shame and dread mixing into a bitter cocktail in the pit of his belly. “For… you know.”

“Of course, Yura,” Otabek replies and smiles at him, always this warm smile and Yuri can’t deal with it, not right now. He looks away and is grateful that Otabek doesn’t touch him again; he feels like he might fall apart if anybody touches him again and he only just barely regained his composure. It’s small and fragile and already wavering at the sight of his unmoving grandfather. It’s silent again for a few long, uncomfortable minutes and then Otabek says, quietly,

“If you want me to leave, just say it. I understand.”

“No,” Yuri says at once, his voice cracking at the end of the word already. “I don’t… stay. Please.” If Otabek is surprised to hear him plea he doesn’t show it. He just hums and settles back into his chair, content to just sit here silently and wait with him.

The silence returns but this time, it’s not tense or unpleasant. It’s almost comforting in how he’s not forced to speak but isn’t alone at the same time, just Otabek’s quiet, strong presence next to him as they continue to wait and the heart monitor continues to beep. There aren’t many people who Yuri is comfortable enough to sit in silence like this, who he’s comfortable being vulnerable and small and young with – more Fairy than Tiger, so very fragile and tiny.

Before Otabek, before Barcelona, he would’ve been here all alone, still waiting for a sign of life. But now there’s Otabek and Yuri just – there’s this warmth in his chest that won’t go away and for the first time, he doesn’t want it to. It feels better like this, even though he’s not able to deal with it just yet. Maybe later, maybe never… but definitely not now. Not when his grandfather is all he can think of; it’s not fair to either of them to try and deal with anything but that.

For now, he’ll just take Otabek’s silent reassurance and his warm presence. For now, it’s enough.

He almost misses the first weak twitch against his fingers. He probably would have if not for a quiet noise of surprise from Otabek and notices the faint twitch of the fingers he’s holding. Yuri nearly starts hyperventilating again and whips his head around to his grandfather’s face to see his eyelids flutter and his eyebrows knit together slightly. And then there’s another twitch _and the fingers curl around his_ as Nikolai Plisetsky opens his eyes, just a little bit, disoriented and obviously weak but wonderfully _alive_.

“ _Ded_ …” It’s more a breath than a whisper that escapes Yuri’s dry lips and then his grandfather’s eyes flit to him and the corners of his mouth lift slightly around the stupid breathing tube they put into his nose.

“Yurochka…” The voice is coarse from disuse and the probably parched throat of somebody who has spent the last few days unconscious but it’s like an angel’s choir to Yuri’s ears right now. His eyes well up again and a way too loud sobs fights its way out of his chest before he flings himself at his grandfather and starts crying again.

This time, the tears feel like rain after a drought.

It’s a mess after that, Otabek calling for a nurse and doctors running around, ushering Yuri away despite his protests but in the end, he lets them examine his grandfather as Otabek gently guides him outside to give the doctors space. There’s Viktor running towards them (a nurse yelling after him not to fucking run in the hospital) after Otabek messaged him, a relieved Yakov calling after hearing the news, more nurses and somewhere in between all that, Yuri silently reaches for Otabek’s hand, wrapping his slim fingers around Otabek’s much bigger ones.

And Otabek lets him do it, just gives him this small, warm smile and squeezes back.

And Yuri knows he’ll be okay.

Chrysalis is a weird thing, as any butterfly would probably let you know if it could. The change itself is a process of deconstruction and reconstruction, of one thing turning into something else entirely, melting into nothing first before a new being arises, like a phoenix from the ashes. But before it can rise, it must burn entirely and that process is not for the weak-hearted.

Yuri’s never been one of the faint of heart, not after having steeled his small, fragile heart time and time again until it was as cold as ice. From porcelain to ivory to steel, ever cold and unbreaking. As it turns out, his heart is still flesh, still as fragile as it has been that first time he’d seen the life flash before his eyes (memories of his father, next to no happy ones, and he wasn’t overly sad to see the bastard go in the end) and still so very vulnerable.

But, he thinks as he returns to his grandfather’s side again, still weak and a little grumpy from being prodded and poked by a flurry of doctors but oh so wonderfully alive, maybe this chrysalis has melted his steely heart into something better. Something more.

Something like the warm pulse of life in his grandfather’s hand as he takes it again, berating the old man for making him worry. Something like Otabek still holding his other hand and smiling a little as he introduces himself. Something like Viktor’s voice from the hallway, excitedly telling Yuuri that everything is okay.

There’s this old Russian saying about how Moscow doesn’t believe in tears, only in deeds. But, he decides as he squeezes Otabek’s hand again and smiles at him, exhausted and happy and grateful, maybe tears are okay after all. Maybe it’s okay to be vulnerable once in a while, to not be cold steel in the face of the raging fires of life. Maybe it’s okay to… let yourself fall.

And besides, he never liked the saying anyway.


End file.
